A World Where the Werewolves Won
by otherhawk
Summary: AU from 'The More Things Change' verse. What would have happened IF. Angst warning. Seem to be on an angsty AU roll at the moment. Second chapter - Rusty's perspective
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Ocean's 11. Nor does anyone want me to. Even me. **

**A/N: What could have happened if Danny's mom had done the _right_ thing in 'Matilda and the Werewolf' and taken Rusty to the hospital.**

**Warning: Dark subject matter. Implications of extreme unpleasantness. Slash. I guess. Also arrgh.  
**

* * *

He'd taken a taxi home from the station. Normally Mom would have met him, but she was in Monte Carlo with Harry. Having a nice time, by the sound of things, and she'd sent him a graduation card saying how proud she was of him. Which was thoughtful of her. Especially considering how upset she'd been at his results.

The driver hauled his suitcase out of the trunk and growled at the lack of tip. Daniel shrugged and watched the guy speed off. Unfortunately his allowance wasn't enough to cover things like tips.

As he started dragging his suitcase up the drive, he realised that there was a kid standing on the lawn, staring up at the house. Immediately he took in the dirty jeans, the torn shirt, the shaved blond hair and he pursed his lips. "You lost?" he called out, polite and patronising all at the same time.

The kid turned to look at him. His face was bruised and cut up and he was _staring_ and Daniel thought about gangs and drugs and surreptitiously looked round, hoping to see one of the neighbours out in their yards hoping that there'd be someone he could appeal to for help, if he needed it.

"Seriously," he said nervously, when the kid did nothing but look at him. "You can't stay here. Where are you heading to?"

There was a sad smile and a half shrug, and the kid started to walk past him, started to walk away.

Daniel froze.

There was something. Something in the shrug. Or the smile. Or the silence. Some old, old memory. Back to when he was a kid. Back to things he hadn't thought about in an age. Back to days of endless summer and endless pain. Back to when he'd felt alive. Back to when he'd honestly thought he could win.

"Rusty?" he said quietly and his voice was uncertain.

The kid stopped. Turned round slowly. "Hey, Danny," he said in a voice that was little more than a hoarse whisper, in a voice that sounded like it hadn't been used in an age.

He swallowed hard. "It's Daniel now," he said ridiculously.

Rusty nodded and didn't say anything else.

The silence was awkward and strained. "So how have you been?" Daniel asked brightly and felt like kicking himself. Stupid thing to say after six years.

There was a hint of a sardonic smile and Rusty shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh," Daniel said inadequately. "Do you want to come in, maybe? Mom's not here at the moment." Which was just as well. But they couldn't stand out here. If one of the neighbours saw him talking to someone who looked like Rusty and told Mom, she'd be disappointed.

Rusty nodded again.

Daniel picked up his suitcase again and they headed in to the house. "Just back from school," Daniel explained as he dropped the suitcase in the hall. "I'm finished with it now, of course. I graduated today, actually. Private school; Uncle Harold got me in. St Sebastians."

"I can read," Rusty told him quietly, and Daniel looked down at the badge on his blazer and flushed.

"Of course," he agreed. He led Rusty into the kitchen. "You want some food, or something? A drink, maybe?"

"Vodka, thanks," Rusty said softly.

Daniel paused in the act of opening the fridge. "Uh, I was thinking soda?"

It was Rusty's turn to go red. "Sorry. Yes. Please. That's fine."

He peered into the fridge. "There's wine, if you'd rather?" he suggested. Mom wouldn't mind if he started on one of the bottles. Celebration of graduation. She'd understand that, as long as it was just one and as long as he promised to replace it.

"Sure," Rusty agreed. Daniel poured them each a glass, grabbed a couple of bags of chips out the cupboard and found some dips in the fridge.

Rusty didn't wait for the dips. He tore into the potato chips like he hadn't eaten for a week and didn't know when he'd next see food. Daniel tried not to watch and tried not to think about table manners and what they'd do if they saw Rusty eating like that at St Sebs.

"I could phone for take-out, if you like," he offered.

Rusty paused and dropped the handful of chips he was holding. "I don't have any money," he whispered apologetically.

Daniel nodded. "Mom will have left some for me to last until she gets home. She always leaves too much. It wouldn't be a problem."

There was a moment of tension and consideration and then Rusty nodded slowly. "Okay."

They moved through to the living room while they were waiting for the food to arrive. "So what are you doing here," Daniel asked presently. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but it's been six years."

Rusty nodded slightly, his eyes fixed on a point on the sofa, and Daniel remembered the bloodstains and turning the cushions over and eventually Mom had found out. She'd been quite cross.

"I was just in the neighbourhood," Rusty said finally, softly. "Thought maybe I'd look in on you."

"Oh." He tried to think of something else to say. Tried not to look at the bruises on Rusty's face. Tried not to notice that Rusty had finished three glasses of wine now. "I looked for you," he blurted out. "After Mom drove you to the hospital. I went every day, and I tried to get in, and I could never find you, and I went to your place and your dad said you didn't live there anymore and I went to see the social workers – lots of times – and they'd never tell me where you were and you never came back to school." He had tried. He'd tried so hard. It had all seemed so important back then. Like the end of the world. Stupid now, of course. Just one of those things. He'd been a kid, thinking that the silliest little things mattered. "I wrote you letters," he added. "For a couple of years. The social workers said they'd pass them on."

"I wasn't allowed letters," Rusty explained after a moment. "Wasn't allowed . . . lots of things."

"Right," Daniel nodded uncertainly and at that moment the doorbell rang and he carefully managed the exchange of money for pizza. Rusty stared at both like he could barely remember what they were.

"So where are you staying now?" Daniel asked when they were settled down again.

"Nowhere," Rusty said with a shrug. "I'm leaving town. At least. Going to start somewhere new. Get a job, or something. Get my own place. Someplace far away."

"Oh?" he asked politely. "Good luck with that."

"Thanks," Rusty said and he almost smiled. "What are you doing now you've graduated? Congratulations on that, by the way."

"Thanks. I'm going to Duquesne in the fall. Didn't quite get the grades they normally want but," he shrugged. "Uncle Harold knows someone on the board. And my best friend's father is the dean." Uncle Harold had encouraged him to make friends with Tarquin, and certainly it had proved to be a valuable connection.

"What are you planning on studying?" Rusty asked with a flat kind of interest.

"International Business Studies," he answered promptly. "It's what Uncle Harold suggested, and Mom agreed." He felt the look, rather than saw it. "I owe them a lot," he said defensively, angry for no real reason. "You wouldn't understand. After my father died - "

" - Your dad died?" Rusty interrupted unexpectedly, his voice full of compassion. "Danny . . . Daniel, I'm sorry."

He paused, wrongfooted somehow. "Yeah, well. It was a couple of years ago now. But I fell apart. In the end they had to put me in a medical centre for a few weeks. Couple of months, I guess. They had me on all sorts of drugs."

"What ones?" Rusty asked casually, as if the story was nothing unusual.

"Zoloft and Tofranil, I think," he frowned.

"Oh," Rusty nodded. "They're good. Especially if you're on Lithium too. After a while you don't feel anything. Don't remember anything."

He stared. Couldn't help it. "_Rusty_ - "

" - you're okay now, though? You're doing okay?" Rusty interrupted desperately.

"Yes," he said. "Yes. No more drugs. No more counselling. And like I said, I owe Mom and Uncle Harold a lot. It's only right that I should do what they think is best for me."

"And you don't want them to lock you up again," Rusty said quietly.

He froze. The simple statement cut through him like a knife. "You might want to remember whose house you're in," he snarled. "You might want to remember who paid for the food you're eating."

Rusty hung his head, backing down immediately. "Sorry, sir . . . Daniel."

"Yeah," he said, calming down and some long-dead part of him was hurt and screaming. "Yeah, it's okay. Don't worry about it. But I owe them."

"Right," Rusty nodded eagerly. "I understand."

He looked at Rusty sideways. "So I guess you ran away?" Rusty must only be fifteen now. No. No, not quite. As far as he remembered, Rusty's birthday had been in the summer holidays. Fourteen then. At any rate, he probably wasn't supposed to be on his own.

There was a slight quirk of lips. A shadowed, bitter amusement. "Guess you could say that. I can't go back."

Daniel eyed the bruises. "I wasn't going to suggest it. You want to get cleaned up before you leave? Might have some old clothes that would fit you."

Rusty hesitated. "Are you sure? I really can't stay for long. And if they catch me here, you might get in trouble."

He snorted. "I shouldn't think they're looking for you that urgently. It'll be fine."

"Oh, they're looking," Rusty said with dark amusement. "Trust me. They're looking."

Not particularly wanting to get involved in the kid's paranoid fantasies, he shrugged and led him upstairs. Dug out a towel and some clothes that would probably only be a little too big.

"Thank you," Rusty said with pathetic sincerity, and disappeared into the bathroom. There was a startled cry a couple of moments later.

"You all right?" he called through the door.

"Yeah," the answer came back, and Rusty sounded bemused and embarrassed. "Just . . . the water's warm."

He blinked. "Oh." He turned the TV on to watch while he was waiting. Late birthday present from Mom last year. She'd been busy with an important project at work and she'd forgotten. Which would've been fine if he hadn't had to go and remind her. Not that she'd said anything, beyond sorry, and she'd even gone and bought him the TV . . . but he'd felt so ungrateful. Like he was expecting far too much.

There was the ending of a movie he didn't recognise and he watched it with deliberate disinterest. The local news was on next. He was supposed to watch that. A good knowledge of current affairs was vital in business life and social situations. First item looked interesting, anyway. A large, imposing grey building, bars on the windows, thick metal doors. Didn't look like a nice place. And it was surrounded by police cars and fire crews, even an ambulance or two. He squinted; looked like there'd been a fire or something? And then there was a covered stretcher and paramedics, and police were carrying something out of the building, and a reporter was saying something about hidden rooms, and Rusty was suddenly behind him, grabbing the remote control out of his hand and turning the TV firmly off.

Daniel stared for a long moment.

Rusty shifted uncomfortably and pulled at the collar of the shirt he'd been given. "I should be going."

"Yeah," Daniel agreed.

"Yeah . . . " Rusty repeated.

Daniel stood up and walked him to the front door. "Good luck," he said again. Somehow he thought Rusty was going to need it.

To his bewilderment, Rusty darted forwards and kissed him clumsily on the mouth. "Thank you," he whispered. And then; "You don't need to do everything they want."

"I do," he said and felt a regret he didn't understand. For a long moment he looked at Rusty and he thought about how he'd felt back when he was a child. When this friendship had felt different and magical and he'd actually thought that they had something that other people didn't. Just children playing pretend and it was hard to believe now that it had all felt worth changing his life for. But he remembered how it had felt to defy his parents, he remembered how it had felt to care, he remembered how it had felt to be everything he shouldn't be, and he wanted that feeling back. Just for a little while. Just for one night. He stared at the boy who represented those times, those feelings, and he leaned forwards and he captured the boy's mouth in his, and it was nothing like kissing a girl, nothing like anything he'd ever felt before, and with a quiet moan, he deepened the kiss. Faster, rougher, more urgent.

Finally Rusty stepped back and studied him carefully. He gave a distant smile that Daniel had no hope of understanding. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

Daniel grinned and practically ran up the stairs, Rusty a step or two behind him.

As soon as the bedroom door was closed, he turned round. "So how do we do this?" he asked. "I mean, I've - "

Rusty kissed him again and then clothes were being removed. Rusty looked up at him. "This is all right, right? This is what you wanted?"

He swallowed and looked at Rusty's body and there were scars there, far more than he remembered, far more than . . . it wasn't his business. Wasn't any of his concern. "This is fine," he said hoarsely.

With a gesture, Rusty got him to sit down on the bed, and then Rusty's mouth was on him, warm and gentle and busy, and he couldn't help but cry out, couldn't help but thrust upwards, again and again, and it was obvious that Rusty had done this before, knew what he was doing, and he'd meant to give some kind of warning, but it was all over so quickly, and his eyes were glazed over and Rusty was standing up, carefully rubbing his fingers round his mouth.

"Sorry," he said, a little ashamed.

Rusty blinked. "What for?" he asked, and Daniel supposed that if Rusty didn't see a problem here, neither should he.

He hesitated, and he never had done this before, but he knew how things were supposed to work. "Let me," he said, and he reached out a hand and Rusty wasn't hard in the slightest.

"No," Rusty said firmly and, when Daniel stared at him, he offered a crooked grin. "Wouldn't do anything anyway."

"Wouldn't - " Daniel frowned in confusion.

"Lots of medications have side effects," Rusty explained. "And I've been on lots of them, since I stopped talking."

"Oh," Daniel said, hopelessly and with sympathy.

Rusty shrugged. "Can't miss what you've never had," he pointed out.

There was something there that Daniel should be thinking about. Something about experience versus desire, but then Rusty's mouth was back on him again, and he was getting hard again and thinking became impossible.

He gave a moan of protest when Rusty stopped abruptly. "You got anything?" Rusty asked.

He blinked, not understanding the question in the slightest.

Rusty sighed. "Never mind," he grimaced and he spat twice onto his hands and started rubbing it inside himself, stretching himself with his fingers, and Daniel watched, wide-eyed and with an expression of distaste.

Rusty caught him looking. "Anything helps," he said defensively and moved to position himself over Daniel.

Daniel caught his arm. "Are you sure?"

Another slight smile that he didn't understand. "You gave me food," Rusty murmured, and even as he was frowning at the non sequitur, Rusty was lowering himself onto him and the world narrowed until all there was nothing but heat and rhythm and frantic movement and the sound of his own ragged, desperate breathing and the sound of his own moans.

He came with a cry and Rusty awkwardly clambered off him and lay face-down on the bed next to him, his head on his arms, his face turned away.

"That was amazing, Rusty," he said when he had his breath back.

"No one calls me that anymore," Rusty remarked absently. "Such a long time. I'd almost forgotten."

"What do they call you then?" he asked. "Robert?"

Rusty hesitated. "Guess so," he said at last.

"You hated that name," he pointed out. "You said it made you think of your dad."

"Not seen him in six years," Rusty said quietly. "Don't know if it would bother me so much now. People change."

"Yes," Daniel agreed. "We were kids back then."

"Yeah," Rusty said softly. "Sometimes I really thought that the world was going to be different, you know? That I could live my own life.""

"We've all got to grow up sometime," Daniel answered with a shrug. "Can't spend the rest of our lives dreaming the impossible."

"I know," Rusty sighed. "But we were kids then."

"We're not kids now," Daniel answered, trailing a hand down Rusty's back.

In response, Rusty wriggled a little into a better position, his hips thrust back and up, his legs spread wide.

Daniel stared. "That's not what I . . . "

"Sorry, sir," Rusty mumbled, and as he made to drop back down, Daniel reached out and stopped him.

He was still staring. "Okay," he said at last. "Okay." He moved in between Rusty's legs. Just for tonight, he would take what he wanted.

*

When he woke up in the morning, Rusty was gone. No note. Nothing. There was a part of him that felt hurt at that. There was a rather larger part of him that felt it was rude. But mostly he felt relieved, and he looked round the house quickly, making sure that nothing was missing. Not something he'd want to have to explain to Mom. But nothing had been taken. Not even the clothes he'd looked out. He'd meant Rusty to take them. Oh, well. Didn't matter.

He supposed he'd been foolish. Left himself open to blackmail or whatever. Oh well. He'd deal with that if it happened. Least the sex had been good.

Ignoring the tiny, long-dead voice inside himself that was screaming, ignoring the chorus of howls, ignoring the last dying stirrings of might-have-beens, Daniel Ocean got on with the rest of his life.

* * *

**Thanks for reading. Or sorry. Whichever applies.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sigh. Not a story I intended to continue. But InSilva wanted to read it.....see? All her fault.**

**Oh, and the observant might have noticed that the rating has been changed to 'M'. Because it always should've been.  
**

* * *

Eventually, Danny had fallen asleep. He waited for a while, not moving, hardly breathing, hoping that Danny wouldn't want anything else, but it seemed as though they were done. Good. Oh, _good_. He crept out of the bed and through into the bathroom and cleaned himself up as quickly and as thoroughly as possible. Hot water. He still couldn't believe that. And he'd had to mention, had to check, but Danny hadn't said he couldn't use as much as he wanted. And as long as it wasn't expressly forbidden, he'd take the risk. Did make things easier. Did make things hurt a little less.

He cleaned himself up and he carefully scrubbed away the mess he'd left on the clean tiles.

Danny hadn't been brutal, just rough, but a little bit of bleeding was inevitable. He couldn't help that. Not when Stuart and James had been on the nightshift all this week. He bit into his lip hard and reminded himself that he'd never see either of them again. He'd never owe them anything again.

Didn't stop him remembering what he had owed them. And what they'd taken in payment. They liked him best. Always had done. Now, he thought that maybe it was because he didn't speak. Wouldn't make a sound. No matter what they did. Both of them together. Every time. Sometimes he thought that maybe it was a challenge for them. A game. If they asked, he'd do what they wanted; he knew how things were meant to work. Knew what was expected of him. What his obligations were. But Stuart and James, they didn't ask. He'd lie awake, waiting, and at some point, when everything was quiet, they'd come and they'd drag him out of bed, and Stuart's hand would be over his mouth – just in case – and he'd be aware of the other boys in the dormitory staring and trying to hide it, be aware of the pity and the relief, and James would bend down, would whisper in his ear, would tell him that he'd been _bad_, and that he needed a time out.

He stared. Blood splattered on a white floor. The Quiet Room. Being held down. Forcing. Hurting. Blood. At some point he'd fallen onto his knees, his hands pressed down against the white tiles. Blood trailed across the floor.

He cleaned it up.

Silently he walked out of the bathroom. Walking hurt but then it had before. Danny was still asleep, thankfully. He glanced at the clothes Danny had found for him. He'd taken them eagerly enough. It had...he'd thought it had been kindness. Now he wasn't sure. And he wasn't sure if tonight had been in exchange for the clothes as well, or if it had just been the food. Danny might be planning on taking something else for the clothes, when he woke up. Well, he wasn't going to be there for that happening. But all the same, he couldn't bear the thought of _owing_ something like that. Fine if the clothes were paid for. Not fine if they weren't. And he wasn't going to wake Danny up and ask. He pulled his old clothes on instead.

His teeth were tearing into his lip again. He hadn't thought they were too bad. The clothes. Until he'd seen the way Danny looked at them. It reminded him...it reminded him of very long ago, it reminded him of when he'd first known Danny. When he'd been falling in a wonderful, terrifying world of acceptance and understanding and...and..._Danny_. It had meant so much. But he remembered the way that Danny's mom had first looked at him. Contempt. Seeing everything he was and everything he'd ever be and knowing full well that he would, could, never be good enough to spend even a second in her son's presence. She'd looked at his clothes, and Danny's face tonight...the same look. The same disgust. The same knowledge.

Getting dressed, he continued to watch Danny sleeping, freezing every time Danny moved, dreading that every sigh could mean that Danny would wake up. Being so very afraid. He pulled his jeans on and fingered the Stanley knife in his pocket. Danny was still naked of course. Lying on his back, the blanket pulled half over him. Throat exposed. Vulnerable.

The knife was heavy in his pocket, and his hand clenched around the handle. It would be easy. Very, very easy. Easier, even, than Dr Mayhew. Easier than being huddled naked on the floor at the man's feet, easier than having the knife concealed in his hands clasped obediently behind his back, easier than waiting until his jaw ached and his throat was bruised, and the man was looking down at him with dark, sated eyes, murmuring that he was a good boy, so grateful, so eager to please, and he _was, _he _was, _and he had stood up so quickly and the knife had moved so smoothly, and the spray had been warm against his face and Dr Mayhew had stared at him and he'd stood and listened to the little choking noises of death. It had been easy.

Easy, and Danny's throat was right there, and Danny was asleep, and Danny would never even know, and he'd sworn that he wouldn't do that again. Wouldn't let himself owe anyone ever again. Wouldn't have to pay his debts. Wouldn't put himself in a position to be grateful and obedient and hurt. He crept a little closer. Stood over the bed and looked down at the sleeping form. Danny shifted a little in his sleep. Whimpered a little. Rolled over and pulled his arms tight around himself, a futile gesture of self-protection. And Danny wasn't trying to protect himself from _him._

No.

Regretfully, he let go of the knife and stepped away from the bed. No, this wasn't Danny's fault. This was his fault. This was his fault for being so stupid and naïve. Danny had offered him food, and he'd thought, somehow, he'd thought that he wouldn't have to pay for it. Because Danny hadn't specifically said, or because it was _Danny_ and he remembered stupid things from when they were children, and Danny had always given him food when he was hungry. Right from the start. He'd given him food and he'd said that it _mattered_ and the one time he'd made noises about paying Danny back some day, Danny had looked at him and it had been anger and sadness. But like Danny had said; they weren't kids anymore. And everything had a price tag attached, and it was perfectly reasonable for Danny to assume that he _knew _that. To assume that he wasn't a complete idiot.

Food was a privilege that had to be earned. Days and weeks, curled in the corner of the bare, whitewashed room, hunger gnawing on him, desperation eating through him and the hollowness inside that wouldn't go away even if they'd laid out a feast before him. The first time, and he hadn't understood what was happening, had been sure that they'd left him there to die, and – every inch of him still hurting from when Dad had punished him – he'd been sure it was because he'd driven Mom away. Because they'd understood that he was a stupid, worthless burden who ruined everyone's life. Because they'd understood that all he deserved was to be locked away and forgotten about.

Eventually, Doctor Mayhew had stood over him, holding a couple of crusts of bread. He couldn't look away. And Doctor Mayhew had been serious and gentle, and he'd explained about inconvenience and expense and how he was sick and needed treatment. How he was a parasite, forcing others to look after him. How food cost money, and how decent members of society earned enough to support themselves and their families. He'd listened, and Doctor Mayhew had explained how he was too weak and too pathetic to help himself. How, since he didn't speak, he'd _never_ be able to help himself. And then Doctor Mayhew had turned away, had taken the bread away, and it had only been in the doorway that he'd paused and casually mentioned the one thing that he could do to earn the bread.

It hadn't taken the taste away from his mouth. And it hadn't been enough to stop the hunger.

Food was a privilege. And he should never have forgotten that. And besides, Danny hadn't gone out of his way to hurt and humiliate him. There'd been no violence. Nothing that made it impossible for him to stay good and silent and obedient. And besides, the food had been hot and fresh and plentiful – for the first time in forever, he didn't feel hungry. That had been a kindness; Danny had been entitled to so much more than he'd taken. A few fucks, a couple of blowjobs; hell, that was nothing. Really, it hadn't been too bad. It had only hurt a lot.

But Danny had been kind. Really, he had been. He'd been quick. And he hadn't spent his time exploring Rusty's body with mouth and hands the way Eric did, and he hadn't hit and hurt the way Stuart and James did, and he hadn't demanded Rusty..._entertain_ him...the way Dr Mayhew did. After the second blow job, he hadn't been quite quick enough to swallow everything and Danny hadn't punished him. Hadn't even made him lick it up off the floor. No, that was kindness, and he should be appropriately grateful.

He wasn't though. Not really. He was _never _grateful. That's why he'd run.

It had been a shock seeing it on TV like that. He'd known they'd be after him, but to see the place, to see the police and the stretchers....he'd had to turn the television off in a hurry. Before Danny saw any more. Before Danny figured out what he'd done.

There'd been three stretchers. Stuart must've died too. He'd still been screaming, somewhere, when Rusty had finally found the front door. He closed his eyes and tried to push the sound out of his hand, tried to block out the memory of turning the corner, so close to freedom, and seeing them standing there, tried to forget how he'd lashed out, the knife in his hand, wanting them to go away, wanting them not to touch him, wanting them to _die. _His own voice was still echoing in his head, high and wild, rage and pain and screaming. So long since he'd heard it. And now it wouldn't stop.

He was never going back to that place. There was no chance of that now. If they caught him they wouldn't send him back. He was a murderer now. And he knew there was no worse crime. No hope and no excuses. They caught him, they'd send him somewhere worse.

(_Where could be worse? What could be worse?_)

Maybe they'd just kill him.

But they weren't _going _to catch him. They were never going to catch him. He'd told Danny he was leaving town, going someplace far away. That wasn't the half of it. And part of him, the soft little part that remembered things, had wanted to tell Danny everything, had wanted to look for help and approval. But he'd looked into Danny's – Daniel's – eyes and he'd thought better of it. Best that Danny knew as little as possible. So that if anyone came looking for him, asking after him, Danny wouldn't be able to tell them anything.

Best that Danny was left thinking he didn't have a plan. But he _did._ He had it all figured out. Back when he'd been in school there'd been a map on the wall next to his desk. He'd spent ages staring at it, dreaming about what it would be like to be able to go anywhere he wanted, anytime he wanted. And it had been six years now, but he still remembered.

Australia. That was as far away as it was possible to get, he thought. And he didn't really know much about the place. Just what he'd read in schoolbooks, long ago. Pictures in magazines. There were kangaroos and koala bears, he knew that. He had a feeling that it was always warm and there weren't many people. And _that _sounded like heaven. He'd go there where no one could possibly know who he was or what he'd done, and maybe he could hide _what_ he was. He'd pick pockets during the day and at night he'd sleep on the beach and he'd be able to eat whenever he wanted and he wouldn't even have to talk to another person and no one would touch him, not ever again.

It would be fantastic.

It would take a while, of course. He remembered from the map that they were closest to the East coast. So all he had to do was walk in the opposite direction to the sunset, and it might take a day or so, but then he'd be at the sea and all he'd have to do was find a boat that was going to Australia and sneak on board and stay hidden till they got there. Might mean that he had to do without food for a couple of days, but it wasn't like it'd be the first time. Wouldn't be too much of a hardship.

Everything was going to be alright.

He winced as he sat down on the floor and reached for his shoes. Hurt a little still. He wondered when the pain would stop. Wondered what it would feel like when it did.

God, he wanted a drink. That was the one thing Danny hadn't been generous with. The wine had only been enough to take the edge off. He wanted more. Back when he'd been nine, he'd hated the taste and the burning, and when Doctor Mayhew had held the beaker to his mouth and made him drink he'd coughed and choked and thought of Dad and he'd hated it so much.

He'd struggled and fought and kicked and bit and spat it out in Doctor Mayhew's face. But then Stuart and James were there, holding him down, and they were patient and he never won. He drank and Doctor Mayhew told him it was a treat. Told him it would make him better.

He didn't think it did. But it made him numb. It made the pain go further away, for a little while, made obedience so much easier, and he needed that. He found himself waiting anxiously for the days when Doctor Mayhew said that he'd earned a little treat. It didn't burn anymore.

Danny stirred a little, crying out in his sleep, some nightmare hurting him. Rusty sat absolutely still and held his breath and _wished _and presently Danny quietened and didn't wake.

He should never have come here. Should've done the sensible thing and walked out of town. But all he'd wanted was to see the house, to be certain that his memories were memories and not wishful daydreams. Wasn't like he'd been thinking that he'd see Danny and everything would be the same as it had been. Well, maybe part of him had been. The small, stupid, stubborn part that remembered sleeping in Danny's arms. Remembered feeling safe. Feeling cared for. Feeling like he mattered.

And then Danny hadn't recognised him. And even when he had, it had been nothing like before, and Danny hadn't wanted to know him. Hadn't wanted to know where he'd been or what he'd been doing, and it wasn't like Rusty wanted to tell him. Wasn't like he was in a hurry to own up to what he was and what he'd done. But Danny didn't want to know and still Rusty had stayed, food and company and just because it wasn't perfect, just because it didn't live up to a stupid child's daydreams, didn't mean that it wasn't the best he'd ever have. And then the kiss. And he'd remembered exactly what he owed Danny.

Paying back hurt. It always did. The look of disgust in Danny's eyes when he'd prepared himself had hurt more. The question, _are you sure, _like he was allowed to say no. The feeling of Daniel (_Danny_) inside him, fingernails digging into his arms...it hurt so much. When he'd climbed off Danny, feeling the ache and the sliminess left behind, there'd been tears in his eyes. Such a baby and he didn't even know why.

Time had passed. It had been years and nothing was the same and he shouldn't expect it to be.

But he remembered Danny. He remembered how it had been. It was always a mistake to dwell on better days only Danny was all of his better days and he hadn't wanted to forget.

They had just been kids, of course. And they did need to grow up sometime. Thing was, if he'd stayed, if they'd been together all this time, really, thinking about it, last night was where they'd always been going.

Danny had always liked touching him. Even back when they were young. Danny would hold his hand, stroke his hair, lean against him, put an arm round his shoulders. And he'd been too stupid to know what it meant, and maybe Danny had been too young, but in the end, as they grew up, Danny would always have wound up fucking him. It was inevitable. After all, Danny was so much better than him. And he'd always owed Danny so much. Danny was strong and he was weak and that was how it always had been and always would be, so it was Danny's right to fuck him whenever he wanted.

Maybe it was best that they'd parted ways before Danny had figured that out. Before Danny had learned to take what he wanted and Rusty had learned that his place was on his hands and knees. Because it had been hard enough last night, in this room where echoes whispered to him. If they'd still been close, if Danny had been the first to use him - it might just have been unbearable.

So he supposed he should thank Danny's mom for dragging him to the hospital all those years ago. Not that he'd felt that way at the time.

_He remembered._

_He remembered the door crashing open and Danny's mom staring at them, and he'd been lying with his head in Danny's lap (God!) and he'd sprang up as quickly as he could, but it had hurt, and when he'd wrapped his arm round his ribs he'd felt damp blood through the pyjamas._

_Danny's mom had been looking at Danny, and then she had turned her attention to him, and he knew she'd seen something. "Stand up," she ordered, marching across the room, and she'd been between him and the door and he couldn't run, and anyway, Danny was there, so he'd obeyed, and she'd yanked the pyjama top off, over his head, and he'd thought that maybe she just didn't like to see him stealing Danny's clothes, but then she'd been staring at the blood and welts and bandages underneath._

_She'd reached out a hand and he'd flinched away, covering his face._

_The look of disgust had been immediate. "For heaven's sake, Robert, I'm not going to hurt you. Get dressed. We're going to the hospital."_

_He'd been shaking, he'd been terrified, and he'd wanted to tell her no, wanted to tell her that she didn't need to put herself out like that, that he'd go home now, that he wouldn't be a burden, but he hadn't been able to find his voice, and Danny had been talking for him, protesting, words tumbling out and falling on deaf ears._

_For the rest of his life he'd remember Danny grabbing his hand before his Mom dragged Rusty away. He'd remember Danny's eyes begging for reassurances he didn't know how to give. "Please, Rus'," Danny had whispered, and then Danny's mom's hand was on his shoulder, firm and painful, leading him to the car and Danny had chased after them, yelling and screaming and incoherent, and they'd left him behind._

_The journey had been silent. Danny's mom hadn't even tried to get him to talk. He'd sat absolutely still, and when they arrived at the hospital, she'd ushered him inside, had a quick word with one of the nurse's, turned on her heel and left. She'd stopped in the doorway. Looked back at him. There was no expression on her face and then she was gone._

_The next few hours passed in a blur of tests and examinations and x-rays and conversations that took place exclusively over his head. His ribs were wrapped, his arm was stitched, his back was cleaned and redressed and it all hurt so much more than when Danny had been doing it. And they kept calling in more and more people, and they were all looking at him, looking at his punishment, knowing how bad and awful he really was. He wanted to cry. And he wanted to beg them to leave him alone, to let him go home, but he didn't. Couldn't. Wouldn't._

_And then they called a social worker in and she sat with him, for a couple of hours, in a cramped office with a dirty window, and he stared at the frayed edge of the carpet as she pretended to be nice. She kept telling him he was safe now. That he wouldn't be hurt anymore. That all he had to do was tell her what happened and he'd never have to see Dad again. Yeah. Right. He knew what happened if he told. Telling was the worst thing to do._

_'Course, he _hadn't_ seen Dad again. Because when she couldn't get any answers out of him, when she'd obviously figured out just how useless he was, when she gave up, she gave him to Dr Mayhew who taught him his place._

_And nothing could ever be good again._

Shaking his head free of memory, he stood up. It hurt. It hurt being here. Because he'd known Danny, once upon a time. And Danny had been so much better than he could ever hope to be. Strong and bright and brilliant and clever and...and _magical._ Better in every way imaginable. And the boy he'd met yesterday – Daniel – wasn't. Oh, he was still better than Rusty but then it wasn't possible to get any lower than Rusty and he knew it.

Somewhere along the way though, sometime over the years, Daniel had lost something. Something that mattered. Something that had made him the person Rusty remembered. That had made him _live. _

Something was broken inside Daniel, broken into a thousand pieces and when he'd been put back together he hadn't been the same, and it made Rusty want to cry and it made Rusty want to scream at Danny's mom. Such a waste. All of it. And there was no getting any of it back.

Taking the risk that he knew he shouldn't, he crossed to the bed and leaned over Danny, his hand gripping the knife tightly in his pocket. "G'night, Danny," he said softly, and he bent down and kissed a person who didn't really exist anymore.

Just for a second, Daniel's eyes opened. Just for a second Danny smiled up at him. "_Rus'...."_

When Rusty stood up again his vision was a little blurry. He didn't know why. He walked away and didn't look back and as quietly as he could, he crept out the door and prepared to face the rest of his life.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think.**


End file.
